


Some he Kills with Arrows

by persnickett



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, that darn cat, thomas is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 11:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17786129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett
Summary: One thing he hadn’t thought to worry about though, was that Newt might end up inadvertently drugged and pinned down under him on the sofa before 9pm had even rolled around.But apparently he had seriously underestimated himself.





	Some he Kills with Arrows

**Author's Note:**

> “Oh, did you expect me to play fair?" Cupid laughed. "I am the god of love. I am never fair.”  
> -Rick Riordan
> 
>  
> 
> So this is my first AU. Not for this fandom - EVER. Because not only is writing this fandom apparently what I do now whenever I'm supposed to be studying, it is also clearly the cause of Not Knowing Who I Am Anymore.
> 
> So... enjoy? (I did.)
> 
> <3S  
> ;)

The door had barely shut behind him, when Newt abruptly sneezed.

 

 _Uh oh._ Thomas took a breath and focused on turning the lock.

 

This was exactly the kind of thing he was afraid of. This was the kind of thing that made him think that tonight could turn out to be one of his worse ideas – and anyone who knew him knew that was saying quite a lot. Bad ideas were almost exclusively the only kind Thomas ever had.

 

Because sure, he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Newt do that before. And fine, maybe the sound he made when he did it was kind of cute. But something so simple definitely shouldn’t have his hand freezing on the doorknob, and his face heating up.

 

Thomas shook it off and turned, holding out a hand to take Newt’s coat.

 

“Bless y—” but he was interrupted by a second sneeze.  

 

And yup – cue the embarrassing blush and the weird, impulsive itching in his fingers – that was definitely pretty heckin’ cute. Dang it.

 

“Oh God,” Newt said, and _yes_ , Thomas told his heart, which had sped up to twice its normal rate. _He’s British_. He’s British and his voice is like velvet and vodka and sex, but he’s your friend and he’s been British all his life, and he’s your _friend,_ and you’ve had a whole semester and pretty much a half to _get the hell over it,_ and. Friends friends friends. You’re friends.

 

Pretty much the only friend Thomas had managed to make in his entire program and screwing that up would be— Oh, tonight was such a bad bad bad idea.

 

“You’ve got a _cat_.”

 

And how? How could that sentence not have a single ‘t’ in it and still come out so smooth and clipped and posh and…

 

Almost slightly accusatory?

 

Newt looked at him and sniffed. His mocha-brown eyes had started to water. Oh. Maybe tonight wasn’t going to have a chance to get bad, maybe tonight was over.

 

But then Newt’s coat was in Thomas’ hand – and then very nearly on the floor – while Thomas struggled for a goddamned grip, on the jacket as well as himself.

 

Newt had chosen a button down shirt and a steel grey cardigan for the evening that made Thomas’ admittedly painstakingly selected, softly-worn-in Henley make him feel suddenly underdressed in his own freakin’ apartment. And Newt looked – well, if tonight could be not over, not just yet, that would be pretty awesome.  

 

“My roommate does, yeah,” Thomas stammered. “She just got him. But he goes pretty much wherever he feels like so there’s probably hair, like, all ov—“

 

Newt sneezed one more completely endearing and not-at-all-panic-inducing time.

 

He buried his face in the crook of his elbow when he did it, too. Honestly how could one person always be so—

 

“I think Teresa has some hay fever pills she keeps in the medicine cabinet,” Thomas said hurriedly. “Lemme just…”

 

He had already bolted halfway down the hall before he skidded to a halt, belatedly remembering to turn back and hang up Newt’s coat first.

 

Newt shook his head and chuckled fondly at him of course, but then that was a sound Thomas was far more used to from him by now.

 

<3<3<3

 

Despite the start the evening had gotten, they ended up settling in more or less comfortably.

 

Or at least. Some of them were more comfortable than others. Newt in fact, looked like he might be getting a little too comfortable.

 

Of course, some of that – if maybe not most – was Thomas’ own fault. He was used to Newt’s habit of propping his leg up on top of whatever he could find to rest it on, any time they settled in for a study session. He had an old injury that, after a few hastily-dismissed attempts, Thomas had gotten the idea he didn’t much like answering questions about, but putting it up seemed to help. So it was no surprise when they sat down to pull their books out, that Newt asked if Thomas would mind him doing so with his back to the arm of the old hand-me-down couch Teresa’s parents had given them when they moved in, and his long, slim legs stretched out across the cushions toward him.  

 

Sure, chill, fine. No problemo.

 

But Thomas had also – since it was just what a good host did – offered Newt a beer. And they were well into their second when Thomas realized, much too late to do anything much about it, that it probably wasn’t the best thing to mix with allergy medication.

 

And as the level of amber liquid in their bottles had gotten lower, so had Newt’s eyelids. And his posture. And now those long legs weren’t just stretched out toward him, but ten nimble, stocking-footed toes had slowly slouched and slid their way all across the sofa and into the non-existent space between the bottom of Thomas’ thigh and the tacky old velour cushion.

 

“You’re warm,” Newt had noted, by way of, what, excuse? Explanation? General all-round observation?

 

Because yeah, Thomas was. Most of the time, really. And he was becoming rapidly convinced it had recently gotten several degrees hotter in here than normal, actually, and _how could Newt be sitting there looking as cool as anything in his dapper-as-fuck sweater and actually seeking out more heat??_

 

Which. Thomas just plucked subtly at the collar of his clinging Henley and made sure to stay casually spread out on his side of the couch enough to let him have, of course, because. Well what kind of crappy study-friend would he be really, if he were to move away from somebody who said that? In that voice. All kind of soft and cocoa-y molten and still very, distinctly, velvety-vodka-y British.

 

And that would have been fine. Sure it would. Even if the words in his textbook kind of started to feel a little repetitive, and Thomas wondered once or twice if Newt had noticed that he hadn’t turned the page in what was now quite a while, but it was still pretty much probably totally okay.

 

Until. Newt’s toes started getting …restless. First they would sort of wiggle intermittently under him while Newt hummed pensively down at his notes. But then they drew out from under Thomas’ leg entirely – filling him for a moment with a very confusing mixture of disappointment and relief – only to move in further and settle right on top of his thigh as naturally as one might settle into an old armchair, or a habitual spot at the dinner table.

 

Newt had big feet for such a slim guy. And Thomas didn’t have to make any snide speculations about what they said about guys with big feet, either. He and Newt both used the gym at the athletic centre. And it was totally normal in a locker room situation to sneak a casual peek. Totally. It would be weird by now if Thomas hadn’t, really.

 

But. The glimpses he had gotten combined with the reminder served by the generously-sized feet now officially _in his lap, oh my god_ – one of them rubbing idly back and forth like either Newt had an itch to scratch or he thought maybe Thomas might – was rapidly leading to a situation that wasn’t going to be casual or not-weird for very long.

 

Thomas settled his textbook a little more concealingly flat across his lap.

 

“Tommy,” Newt murmured thoughtfully, prodding him for his attention with his big toe as if they’d been using it as a method of communication for years. “Got your notes from last class?”

 

Newt was chewing distractedly on his pen. Thomas tried – and failed – not to watch him draw it slowly out from between his lips, tap it against his bottom teeth with a sharp _click click click._ “What’d you write for the difference between Impressionism and Expressionism?”

 

“Uhm…” Thomas looked away, back down at his text, and tried to will his memory back to Wednesday’s lecture for an answer. He couldn’t risk shoving the book off of his lap to go in search of his notes, not right now.

 

And then Newt’s big toe curled in again, to draw an inquisitive line over the top of his leg and it _tickled_ , oh God. And Thomas couldn’t help it, he knew Newt would feel it, but the sudden shot of goosebump-inducing reaction that flashed up his thigh to the base of his spine made him jump, just a little.

 

“ _There’s_ our little fellow! Does he have a name?”

 

Little? Thomas’ fingers curled reflexively tight around the edges of the text. He felt the tips of his ears start to burn a bright, searing red.

 

Sure, he was flattered if Newt had been stealing some stealthy locker-room glances himself, he’d be disappointed if he hadn’t, if he was being completely honest with himself. And not that he was one to brag, but. ‘Little’ was hardly the description he would have—

 

“Good fucking _Lord_ but you’re adorable, aren’t you?”

 

What. Was happening? Thomas stared down at his now completely incomprehensible page, quietly but calamitously, losing his fucking mind.

 

Newt was making kissing noises.

 

Oh fucking Jesus fucking Christ. It took Thomas more than one slow breath in and out before he could finally look up.

 

“I thought you hated cats?” Thomas could hear the bewilderment in his tone as he let the welcome tidal wave of his sanity wash back over him while he took in the scene in front of him. Newt was abandoning his notes, putting them aside to stretch an arm down off the couch and hold it out entreatingly toward the furry little face peeking around the corner from the hallway.

 

“I’ve never said I _hated_ them,” he chided absently, still turned away toward the hall. “Said I was allergic. So I’ve never gotten the chance to find out have I? But now you’ve got me all properly medicated out of my wits, I might have a go.” A couple more inviting little kissy noises and the little interloper was trotting eagerly across the room toward the sound. Thomas couldn’t blame him, not one bit.

 

“They always seem such smug little buggers,” Newt went on, wrinkling his nose up in that entertained way he had that always made Thomas’ heart skip stupidly, as the kitten gave his fingers an investigative sniff. “Reckon we’d get on quite well.”

 

And then Newt shifted position, regrettably but probably wisely, removing his feet from Thomas’ leg as he moved to pick the now definitely smug-looking kitten up off the floor. It took Newt an admittedly inexpert couple of seconds to awkwardly scoop the little fur-ball up and onto his chest, but he made up for it with these friendly, soothing little cooing noises all the while – and Thomas found himself wrestling with the sudden, intrusive thought of how Newt might talk to a small child, or how he would look handling a baby. And he was struck with the suddenly-important-feeling revelation that he had never asked Newt about whether he some day wanted a family.

 

Not that Thomas had it bad enough to be, like, _planning_ or even imagining for that matter— it just. No. No, God no, it. Just seemed like something Thomas should know, didn’t it? They were friends after all.

 

But he was quite literally yanked out of his thoughts by said friend grabbing a sudden hold of his shirt at the elbow with an excitable “oh Tommy, get a feel of him!” and tugging with enough abruptly surprising force to bring Thomas nearly right down on top of him.

 

Okay. This. Was nothing like what Thomas had been afraid of at all. He had been afraid of being too obvious about his hopeless, inappropriate crush. Of blushing too hard, or – probably the most likely –  blurting out something stupid and friendship-endangering like ‘you know that girl Brenda from our sculpting lab? She says Bi Disasters like us always have the most useless gaydar, but I liked you way before you told me last month that you only date guys. So.’

 

And that would have been bad. Losing his friendship with Newt would be worse than just losing the person he laughed and chatted with on the way to classes. Worse than losing his only real study partner and inevitably watching his grades plummet, and flunking out, and proving to everyone back home who ever laughed at the spazzy day-dreamer kid who stuttered over his words until well into the fourth grade and was always getting busted drawing comics in class, that he was just as useless a screw-up as they had always known he would be.

 

It might even be worse than the looks on his parents’ faces when he inevitably came home with his tail between his legs and the news that they had been right to worry about spending all that money on an Arts college all along, and they should have made him take Chemical Engineering instead. He liked Newt. As more than a crush. Newt was helpful and smart and funny and kind. He could play four instruments – five, if you counted the drums, which for some reason Newt claimed he didn’t – and more than one of his paintings had literally made Thomas cry.

 

So sure, he had spent more time worrying about that, and other things, than he probably should. He had worried about how much Febreeze was too much Febreeze, and that his tidy-up of the apartment would miss something crucial like one of his sweaty gym socks or Teresa’s randomly doffed brassieres – he swore sometimes girls were even grosser than guys, honestly. One thing he hadn’t thought to worry about though, was that Newt might end up inadvertently drugged and pinned down under him on the sofa before 9pm had even rolled around.

 

But apparently he had seriously underestimated himself.

 

“Newt, you’re—”  Thomas started to protest, putting a hand down behind Newt’s shoulder to try to avoid just crashing all the way down onto him. But Newt was still pulling at him, so Thomas opted for a last-second strategic angling of his hips that would bring him down so that their sides were touching instead, hopefully thereby avoiding any friendship-shattering poking-type incidents, as well as averting the accidental crushing-to-death of his roommate’s precious new pet. Because if that happened, Thomas had little doubt his own death would follow swiftly after.

 

“He’s so bloody _soft_ ,” Newt marveled. His thumb and forefinger were scratching a massaging little line down the furry feline’s back, while his other hand gave another urging tug at Thomas’ sleeve.

 

Thomas watched the fuzzy little beast arch its back appreciatively. “I know what my own cat feels like,” he demurred, absolutely not envious of a three-pound housecat.

 

“Thought you said he was Teresa’s?” Newt asked, though it was cut off at the end with a little ‘oof’ sound as the kitten grew impatient with this interruption of his massage and butted his head demandingly into Newt’s chin.

 

Newt chuckled happily and nuzzled reciprocatingly into the top of the tabby and white head. Okay maybe there was just the tiniest touch of envy.

 

“Well. Try not to be jealous but my roommate lets m—"

 

“Tommy,” Newt broke in, sternly. “If you make a ‘petting the pussy’ joke about your ex right now, so help me…”

 

Thomas grinned.

 

“Okay. First of all. I don’t even know why she told you about that, we were in grade school. Second, I would _never_.”

 

He would, though. And Newt knew it too. Dumb jokes were pretty much his go-to if he was feeling awkward – which, sure, was how he felt a large percentage of the time – and right now was no exception.

 

“At least not in front of the _baby_.” Newt quirked an eyebrow, moving his hand so it covered up both the cat’s delicate, pointy little ears. Thomas let out a skeptical little chuckle. Newt’s jokes weren’t nearly as dumb, but they worked almost as well.

 

But then Newt was giving an impatient little huff-sound and tugging at him a final time. “Thomas, would you just cuddle the damn cat with me already, it’s my first time and you’re being a right twat about it.”

 

Thomas sighed and brought up the hand that wasn’t busy propping himself up what was really only bare inches away from Newt by now. He laid it obediently over the delicate, furry little spine and tried not to think about how egregiously unfair it was for Newt to be talking British to him, while holding a motherfucking _kitten,_ and pressed all up alongside him like he was.

 

“Hey buddy,” Thomas acknowledged his interfering but admittedly adorable cat reluctantly, as he craned his pointed little face ecstatically up toward Thomas’. Letting his little slit-pupiled eyes fall to half-mast and taking in their combined attention like it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

 

Thomas could relate to the feeling. Having his hand pressed gently into soft kitten fur, with Newt’s warm, slightly dry palm laid over top and his long, nimble fingers moving encouragingly in between his own to scratch and stroke and caress was pretty freakin’ unbelievable. 

 

Thomas sighed again, not troubling to keep the sappy, contented sound out of it. If his whole life was about to go to hell in a handbasket, he might as well enjoy the ride.

 

“He’s so little,” Newt remarked in that quiet murmur people who got this close together used.

 

“Yeah,” Thomas replied, hearing his voice do the same, and not bothering to do much about it. He wasn’t sure whether he could, it was pretty much a reflex. “He’ll get bigger though. He’s about twelve weeks old, the adoption service said. Or thirteen now I guess.”

 

“You still haven’t told me his name.”

 

With the way Newt’s fingers moved over his, it was hard sometimes to know whether every stroke was meant for the kitten fur underneath them, or if some of them might be for the hand trapped not-unhappily in between.

 

“He doesn’t have one yet,” Thomas said, careful to keep his voice steady, although it still came out so softly it might be hard to tell. “Teresa keeps asking for suggestions and immediately rejecting them because _‘you know Tom, for an art student, you’re disappointingly uncreative’_.” At least Newt had the good grace to courtesy-laugh at his terrible, high-pitched attempt at impersonating his life-long best friend’s probably-accurate put-downs. This still wasn’t completely not-awkward though. “She’s been threatening to just pull a bunch of hipster baby names off the internet and pick one out of a hat.”

 

Newt tilted his head while he considered that – _toward_ Thomas’ of course – oh man, he could smell his shampoo. What was that, mint? Jesus.

 

“Whiskers,” came the quiet suggestion, as the fingers of the hand that no longer had to keep pulling insistently at Thomas’ sleeve came up to scratch at one affectionately.

 

“Tried it.”

 

“Boots.”

 

“Tried it.”

 

Newt’s pensive little hum held the touch of laughter in it. “…Patches.”

 

“Look, if it’s a word that sounds like it could possibly be a cat’s name, like Pickles or Gizmo or Simba or Fluffy _or_ Mr. Darcy, then whatever you’re going to say – I’ve tried it.”

 

“Hmm,” Newt hummed a serious-sounding second time, as one long finger scratched in under the furry little chin so he could examine the tiny face as if its true name would be written there. “Jango Fett.”

 

Thomas laughed. Now Newt was British and cuddling a kitten while _holding his hand,_ and talking about Star Wars. Thomas officially gave the hell up and just let his heart start racing idiotically in his chest. Resistance was definitely futile. “I’ll pass it on.”

 

“Alright you poor, nameless mog,” Newt announced, before placing a definitely envy-inducing kiss on top of the traitorous little shit’s head. “Not that I don’t absolutely adore your company but I’m not getting the feeling Tommy appreciates you making quite this much of a third wheel out of yourself on our date.”

 

And it was just as well that Newt let go of his hand to pick up the kitten and shift him gently back down onto the floor because Thomas’ mouth went suddenly dry and he hadn’t known it was possible for his palms to reach a state that could be very accurately described as ‘clammy’ quite this fast.

 

“I. D— Date?”

 

“So this isn’t a date?” Newt’s eyes lost that softly-lidded look he had been wearing most of the night. “…Well, this could get awkward.”

 

 _No shit_ , Thomas – thankfully – didn’t say.

 

“If you mean to say you’ve actually invited me over here to _study_ , for a History of Visual Arts class with no midterm. While your flatmate’s conveniently expected to be out for the entire evening? …On February the fourteenth.”

 

Well. That was hardly a coincidence. Thomas looked over at the kitten, who it seemed hadn’t taken the hint, and had sat down to watch the proceedings with his tail curled primly around his feet. He was absolutely no help. “…It’s Valentine’s day, and it’s _Teresa_. Of course she has a date.”

 

“So you haven’t put Nirvana on your playlist because you noticed I’d worn a t-shirt with them on to class the other week? And you normally put out candles to study for exams you don’t have, do you?”

 

Newt’s tone sounded like it was aiming for his usual knowing sarcasm, but there was something wrong in it. His distinctive bronze brows had wrinkled themselves up into a frown and his eyes were clearer than they’d been all night – sharp and shining and… something that looked heart-piercingly like… hurt?

 

And wow. Oh no. Oh _wow_ no, this night had gone bad in such a completely unexpected way.

 

Thomas forgot all about keeping a safe distance, or his sanity for that matter, and angled down toward Newt so he could face him properly.

 

“Look, Newt. Don’t—“ Oh God, his hands were so sweaty and his stomach was in entire fucking knots. But he had to at least _try_ to fix this. “ _Please_ don’t get me wrong here, I’d really like— I mean if this was a date then I _totally_ — I really. I mean yeah. ... _Yes_. But you’ve been drinking, and I gave you that pill and I just—"

 

“Chivalry?” Newt interrupted, taking blessed, merciful, much appreciated pity on him. “That’s what this is??” Newt shook his head where it was resting against the arm of the couch, incredulously but thankfully looking about as relieved as he was exasperated.

 

“Honestly Thomas,” he went on, bringing a hand up to comb his fingers tentatively through the hair at his temple. And maybe he wasn’t supposed to, but he leaned instinctively into the touch, as a whole new understanding of the kitten’s obvious enthusiasm for Newt’s stroking techniques washed down the back of his neck and all the way down his spine. “You’ll bloody well be the death of me.”

 

“Is it weird that I’ve known you for four months, three weeks, and six days and I already hate it when you call me that?” Great. His voice was already coming out all bewildered and croaky.

 

Newt just smiled and kindly didn’t point out that what was weird was Thomas keeping a running mental calendar of the days since they had met. And Thomas showed his appreciation by not mentioning that he could have also told him the number of hours and yes, fine, even the minutes.

 

“Tommy.” Newt’s eyes had a glint in them now that Thomas wasn’t quite sure he had ever seen there before, but that actually went quite a way toward unknotting the tension in his stomach, and he could definitely get used to. “If you’re planning on launching a nefarious career of drugging all your potential romantic conquests, you might want to make a better habit of reading the box. Because I did, and it was quite clearly labled ‘non-drowsy’.”

 

His stomach fully unknotted and dropped completely away, right down through the sofa cushions as well as the floor.

 

Oh. “I.” _Oh_. “S- So it’s the beer then? That’s making you—“

 

“Flirt shamelessly with the cute but apparently clueless boy I’ve been dropping anvil-sized hints on for the past three months? The beer might be providing a little much-needed courage, I won’t argue that.”

 

And that was – that took a moment, actually, because Newt’s fingers were in his hair again and, hmmmm, that felt seriously— and the cat was _still_ sitting there. Thomas made a mental note to ask Teresa if she had noticed any similarly voyeuristic tendencies from the little fluff-nugget.

 

But later. Because:

 

“Courage?” Newt needed courage? Gorgeous, sarcastic, suave, cardigan-wearing Newt? To flirt with _him_? …Wait. Did he say… “ _Months_?”

 

Newt’s fingers left his hair to come together on his chest and pick nervously at each other. Their feline chaperone turned his head disinterestedly and started giving himself a bath.

 

“Tommy, do you remember what you said when you asked me here tonight?”

 

Jesus Christ, Newt had just admitted to flirting with him. For apparently three goddamn months. Thomas was surprised he could remember his own fucking name. “No… not. Really.”

 

“That’s because you didn’t. You asked me if I ‘had plans’.”

 

Oh yeah. He remembered now. He had been such a spazz-tastic nervous wreck about it too, that the words had taken him at least eight of the minutes he had known Newt for, to get out.

 

“I just didn’t want you to think _I_ had any,” Thomas blurted, before he had really considered whether that was something he should confess at the moment, but as it made Newt smirk sort of knowingly, Thomas figured maybe it wasn’t much of a surprise. …Huh. “But then you said we should study, and...”

 

“Actually I believe I used the words ‘study date’,” Newt cut in, slyly. “I also asked ‘your place or mine’, when the library has never failed us as a perfectly suitable study location the past.”

 

“So.” It was suddenly sort of hard to swallow. “So not the beer then.”

 

“It could also be the charmingly simulated LED candlelight,” Newt allowed drily. “But it’s probably mostly the boy.”

 

His hand moved again, to settle warmly at the side of Thomas’ hip this time. But his eyes didn’t. Those stayed steadily, hypnotically focused right on Thomas.

 

 “…Say something?”

 

“Uh. They’re Teresa’s?”

 

“Something _else_ , you stupid sod!” Newt laughed, picking his hand up in a way that Thomas thought for a moment might be about to come down in a sharp swat on his right ass-cheek, but came up to shove ineffectually at his shoulder instead.

  
He’d have to remember to ask Newt to remedy that later.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it. “I had no idea – I didn’t mean to be so… _me_ about all this. I've liked you _so_ long, I just honestly never could h—“ Thomas shut his eyes against the glorious distraction of the way Newt looked smirking that sweet, gratified smirk at him, took a breath, and tried again. “ _Newt_. I mean come on. You’re so far out of my league I’m surprised it’s not, like, illegal where you come from or something, and _wow_. That was out loud. …And that. Can I be done talking now?”

 

“It’s usually for the best,” Newt acknowledged, but he was grinning a happy grin that made even the most humiliating shit that could come out of Thomas’ mouth – and that was apparently a lot of humiliating shit – totally unquestionably worth it.

 

“You expect me to believe _Teresa_ bought battery operated candles?” Newt asked belatedly, apparently tiring of Thomas just staring wonderingly down at him in a new, dumbstruck silence.

 

It wasn’t his fault. Newt’s hand had found its way back to Thomas’ hip, his fingers moving the soft fabric of his Henley back and forth over the small of his back in a way that threatened to displace it enough that they might slip underneath and find his skin at literally any moment.

 

“She has real ones in her room,” he admitted sheepishly, apparently not done with the whole humiliation thing yet. “She… said I couldn’t be trusted around an open flame.”

 

“The words of a woman wise beyond her years.”

 

Now that Thomas had given up propping himself up at an awkward distance and had apparently at some point settled close down over top of Newt onto his elbows, his fingers found themselves at a very convenient distance from a certain thatch of gleaming blond locks with a long-standing habit of making them itch with temptation. Their moment seemed to have finally come, though.

 

“Shut up.” Thomas grinned, stroking over the side of Newt’s golden, evidently mint-scented hair, and reveling in the way it made his lip curl and that dreamy, soft-lidded thing take over in his eyes again.

 

“Oi mate,” Newt said, turning his head to address the cat still sitting curiously next to the couch, but not enough to completely dislodge what Thomas’ fingers were doing. “Would you tell Tommy for me that I don’t normally respond all that well to commands?”

 

This apparently was taken as an invitation to hop back up onto the cushion next to Newt’s shoulder and headbutt him shamelessly in the ear. But judging from the soft, close-up giggle it brought out of him, Newt didn’t mind it all that much. He turned away just the same though, bringing his full attention back up to look Thomas squarely in the eye before he went on.

 

“…He might try _making_ me, though.”

 

“Good that,” Thomas murmured, in that quiet tone that people who got this close together were supposed to use. Because at some point, Thomas had apparently started to lean very, very close.

 

He didn’t have much further to go though, before Newt tipped up and met him somewhere along the way.

 

And Thomas had a thought, as he reached blindly over toward the tickle of meddlesome whiskers against his ear to nudge a certain nameless little busybody gently off of the sofa and back down onto the floor.

 

He would probably forget though. What with the soft, slow way Newt’s lips moved against his own. The strange uneven rhythm his heart struck – speeding and racing energetically, only to skip, and stop, and catch in his throat each time Newt moved subtly under him. Not to mention the sparking, electric jags of lightning that shot up his spine from the place where those fingers absolutely did slip in under the hem of his shirt and find his skin.

  
If he remembered, though. Which he wasn’t sure he would – right at the moment he was very very hopeful that Teresa wouldn’t be home to discuss it for quite some time.

 

But whenever he did get the chance to mention it to her, Thomas privately thought ‘Cupid’ was staring to seem like a better and better suggestion to add to the naming pool every minute.


End file.
